


After

by TheCourier



Series: to feel alive [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Temporary Character Death, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, Jon came back not quite right, M/M, Premature Ejaculation, Size Difference
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-17
Updated: 2018-07-17
Packaged: 2019-06-12 00:09:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15327426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCourier/pseuds/TheCourier
Summary: The first timeafter, Jon almost didn’t let Tormund touch him. He had felt disjointed and raw and wrong. It had felt like his body didn’t belong to him anymore, like he wasn’t welcome in his own skin anymore.





	After

_After_ , Jon could feel Tormund’s eyes on him all day and long into the evening, as though he couldn’t believe, _wouldn’t_ believe. He wouldn’t talk to him beyond the initial posturing in front of everyone else, but he watched, as though Jon would just disappear if his eyes left him for just a moment. That night, Tormund followed him to his chambers, the Lord Commander’s chambers, the title ringing hollow, now, without any regard for whether the men of the Night’s Watch would talk. They had been more discreet _before_. Jon’s wishes. Tormund couldn’t have cared less. Jon felt like he might agree, now.

Everything felt wrong. The cold outside didn’t feel as cold as it should and he could barely feel the heat of the fire inside. Everything felt muted except for where his brothers had stabbed him to death. Stabbed him; Death. His wounds felt raw, his nerves felt like they were on fire, but everything else … It seemed like he didn’t belong to this world anymore. Perhaps he didn’t.

Tormund stood over by the fire, his eyes roaming over Jon’s body. Not with lust, just absolute bewilderment.

“Are you going to say anything or just stare at me all night?” His voice sounded wrong too, the words leaving his mouth _felt_ wrong.

“You shouldn’t be here. It isn’t right,” Tormund said. His voice didn’t sound right either, but Jon couldn’t tell whether the rawness of it was because his senses didn’t work properly anymore or whether it was something in Tormund, something he couldn’t place.

It hurt. Like being stabbed in the heart. Raw.

Hurt was a surprise. Jon hadn’t known whether he would be able to feel anything anymore, let alone something so seemingly trivial as emotions. He was glad.

And suddenly, Tormund was here, in his personal space, towering over him, looking down at him. “I’m glad you are though.” Jon saw him swallow, hard, every muscle in his neck moving. “I thought I’d lost you.” Tears had started to well up in his eyes. Jon reached up to touch his cheek, faltering ever so slightly before making contact, afraid to find out he wouldn’t be able to feel his lover’s skin, his scraggly beard, under his fingertips anymore. A tear brushed his fingertips, then they just felt wet.

He had rarely seen Tormund cry but when he had, this big man, the wildling, the giantsbane, had done so openly, hadn’t felt the need to hide it. Jon suspected not letting others see you cry was a southern thing. Tormund was crying now, openly, bitterly. It wasn’t pretty. He was sobbing, hard, his whole body shaking under the weight of emotions crashing down upon him. Relief, confusion, anger, who could tell? Tormund probably couldn’t tell him himself had he asked. It was what both of them needed. Feeling Tormund shake against his own body, his big hands in his hair – he had from the very start loved touching his hair – it gave him something real, something he _knew_.

Jon, passive until this point, put his free arm around Tormund, pulling him in closer, closing what little distance there had been left between their bodies, fitting his head below Tormund’s chin. The angle was awkward, his other hand still on Tormund’s cheek, Tormund’s in his hair, but neither of them moved, just touching the other, feeling him, both afraid that this moment wasn’t real, would end too soon, too sudden, with fire and ash, ice and cold and death.

An eternity later, Tormund’s sobs subsided. Jon could feel his man’s apple working as he tried to swallow. “I thought I’d lost you,” he repeated.

“Me too.” His voice still felt wrong, his throat raw. He hadn’t cried. Maybe he should have. Could he?

Tormund’s hand gripped his hair harder, pulled his head back, so he was forced to look straight up at Tormund. It hurt but he didn’t mind. Hurting meant he was alive, breathing, here. Tormund’s eyes were puffy and red, still glistening with tears. He looked awful and that made him the most beautiful man in the world.

“Don’t do it again. You’re still needed.”

He could feel his heart drop. He swallowed. “Alright.”

“Good.” Jon could feel the grip on his scalp loosen, but just a little. Tormund’s hand came down at the back of his neck and he bent down, just barely, as though afraid to break their bodies’ contact. Jon closed his eyes, to _feel_ Tormund’s lips brush against his forehead, a chaste kiss, familiar. He felt it, but it wasn’t right.

“Kiss me properly,” he ordered, his voice steeled. Even through their layers of clothing he could feel Tormund’s cock harden against his stomach. When Tormund’s lips found his, it was heat, the kind of heat you don’t get from a fire, whether one in a hearth or outside beyond the Wall. Hunger. Desire. Life. _Alive._

He was alive.

Jon kissed him back with a hunger he hadn’t expected. The hand that was still half-embracing Tormund curled around Tormund’s shoulder, the other slipped from his cheek to the back of his neck, pulling him down towards Jon, closer, so close. Jon’s knee almost subconsciously pressed between Tormund’s legs, forced them apart.

With a sound that was between a gasp and a laugh, Tormund pulled away. His face was flushed, clashing beautifully with his hair and beard. “Good to know you’re still you, pretty Crow. So eager.”

“Make me feel alive, Tormund.” Jon almost whined. He had almost felt the heat Tormund must be radiating by now. He didn’t know whether it was a sensory memory of sharing body heat or real, and he hadn’t much cared at this point.

Tormund’s hand immediately went to Jon’s cock, his hand grasping it with a smug grin. “I don’t think you need me for that. Everything important seems to still be working.”

“Because of you.”

A guttural grunt escaped Tormund before Jon realised that now he was being picked up, as though he weighed little at all, and before conscious thought had fully returned to him, he was being deposited onto the bed, his furs and shirt were being ripped open with little care.

Air hit his now naked chest and, in his mind, he knew he should feel the cold, even here, inside, but he didn’t. Doubt, clawing at him.

Tormund’s hands faltered over his chest, his wounds, already scabbing over – which also didn’t seem right – as though suddenly unsure what to do. Logically Jon knew, Tormund had seen him, when … _Before_. Jon swallowed and caught his hand with his own. He tried to make the movement smooth by interlacing his own fingers with Tormund’s, but it felt awkward. It took all his will to keep touching him at this moment. “Please don’t.”

Tormund’s movements halted and he just, just _looked_ at him, with those beautiful, still puffy eyes. “You’re still a pretty Crow, Snow,” he whispered, barely audible. Jon felt his breath on his face.

“Just … don’t.”

“As you wish.” He dropped his hand, below the wounds, and started kissing Jon again, and it felt like their first time. Not the first time _after_ , their first time ever. That hunger, that urgency. Then, it had felt like life or death; this time, it was.

Tormund’s fingers fumbled with the cord of his breeches, but he seemed to manage, because the next thing Jon felt was skin on skin, Tormund’s hand on his cock, squeezing.

Jon groaned.

Tormund grinned against his lips, biting down, drawing blood. Jon groaned louder. His hands came up again, his fingers tangling themselves in Tormund’s hair, his beard. His leg curled itself around Tormund’s, seeking as much contact as he possibly could.

The hand on his cock started moving slowly, tightly. Jon squeezed his eyes shut, to truly _feel_. He spilled fast, too fast, and hard. He could feel Tormund grin against his mouth.

“You’re still dressed,” Jon realised, suddenly, after he had finished spilling in Tormund’s hand.

Tormund propped himself up, elbows on either side of Jon’s head and grinned broadly. Jon had never loved that grin more. “You’re younger than I am, basically a newborn now. It only makes sense that you would spend yourself early.”

Every smart answer he could have possibly thought of left him. Instead, Jon just looked at Tormund, how open he was, happy, relieved. All just to have him back. He pressed a kiss to Tormund’s temple. Neither of them moved for a long time, they just looked at each other. Finally, Tormund settled down on top of him again. Jon was glad to feel the weight, it was something palpable, real.

Even though he still didn’t feel like _before_ , not quite right, probably never would again, but he at least saw the possibility of feeling right again. Different, aye, but right.

**Author's Note:**

> I have a couple of short stories rattling around in my head, with this idea that Jon doesn't feel quite right post-resurrection but can't put his finger on whether it's in his head or not, something the show seemed to hint at and then forgot about, so here we are.
> 
> It's been a while since I wrote anything fictional, I hope you enjoyed it :)
> 
> Constructive criticism is always appreciated.


End file.
